It doesn’t even feel good anymore;
there is no reason, nothing that makes it worth it.
There is nothing new in the feeling. In the action.
But like air, I still need it. I still do it.
Do it on repeat like a song on a CD-player that has already grown old
but got stuck months ago.

When I do it, I feel disgusted. Disgusted with myself.
Disgusted with my life.
But know what? It’s better than not doing it—
than letting the thoughts invade my heart;
than letting the thoughts take hold of my arms,
make them move without my permission.
I prefer this numbness— this disgust—
over living in my own body; the shed it has become.